


Meeting Heroes

by reading_is_in



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fangirls, Female Friendship, Female Protagonist, Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:54:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reading_is_in/pseuds/reading_is_in
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>16-year-old Lara Brown endures her last year of high school, life in the Wisconsin winter brightened only by her quiet love for an obscure graphic novel series called Supernatural and her best friend, Abby. Meanwhile, the Winchesters pursue a case in the same town. A tale of fandom love, friendship and freakness. No damsels will be needing deliverance in this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Forbidden Planet was filled with guys, as usual: a mix of Geeks, Goths and the odd businessman in an incongruously neat pressed suit, poring over the comic book collection. Heads turned as she walked in, but Lara Brown strode brusquely past the other customers, hands clamped protectively on the strap of her cloth bag. Eyes forward, she made a beeline for the bookshelves, and could feel her face stretching into a smile at of the familiar spines. The 

_Supernatural_ logo lined up in neat repetitions, black, grey and blue along the bookshelves, but her heart jumped at the sight of the new cover, set face outwards with a placard reading JUST IN:

 _VOLUME 27: Simon Said_.

Suppressing a vocal reaction, but unable to help herself from a little dance on the spot, Lara grabbed the copy and flicked through it rapidly, squeaking internally at the abundance of new awesomeness. Taking out her phone, she   
called up the last in a series of increasingly forceful text messages:

 _Bitch wrote at 16.48_ : WELL?!?!?!!!! 

IT’S HEAT! 

Lara speed-texted, then:

HERE!!!!m. SRY PREDCTIVE TXT. OMFG!

 _Bitch wrote at 17.01_ : AAAAAH! DON’T KEEP ME IN SUSPENSE JERK! WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE

Of course, they’d both seen the promos. But a mini cover shot in a magazine could hardly do it justice.

A-M-A-Z-I-N-G. Lara texted as fast as she could: GET TO MINE AS SOON AS YOU CAN.

“Hi,” said the clerk, recognizing Lara as he bagged her purchase. “You really like these books, huh?” Lara blushed. She didn’t know why, but somehow being known as the girl who came in for the _Supernatural_ books on the day they arrived made her – uncomfortable. It was stupid, really – it wasn’t like the clerk actually gave a crap, he was just being polite to a customer. But her feelings about the series were so intense, so – well, so _much_ \- it was like anybody who didn’t understand had no business commenting. The only person in her real life who knew about her obsession was Abby – and that was because Abby was equally obsessed.

It was how they’d met, actually. Three months ago, at the start of eleventh grade, Lara was new at school, lonely and   
miserable in her first Wisconsin winter, and was doodling _Supernatural_ things in her notepad, just to remind herself she had something to look forward to once. She was just finishing up a sketch of the Impala, putting the finishing touches to the license plate, when the girl behind her had poked her and passed her a note. She had frowned and opened, half-expecting it to tell her people were sticking gum in her hair again, but she remembered distinctly   
the way her eyes had widened when she read the words,

_Nice. 67?_

Checking to make sure the teacher was occupied, Lara looked over her shoulder, to see a dark-haired girl in wire-framed glasses smiling a little embarrassedly. _YES!!_ she wrote and underlined it several times, before adding, _Do you like Supernatural_? and returning the slip. _I love it_ , came the scribbled reply: _So happy to meet someone else who does!_ Which had made Lara brave enough to write, _Carver Edlund owns my soul_ and from then on, they were pretty much golden. They shared all the information they could find about the little-read series, scoured the fansites together, and counted down the days until the next installment was published. They’d been planning to make today’s mission together, of course, but at the last minute Abby’s parents had insisted she stay home because they were expecting a package. Her brother had a baseball game, and it would be impossible to explain why she wanted to go get the new book with Lara on the day it came out. 

Lara’s phone buzzed again as she was leaving the store:

 _Bitch wrote at 17:04_ I AM DYYYINGG! U HAVE IT IN UR HANDS! U R TOUCHING IT

HELL YEAH, Lara typed back, then grinned, tucked the new book securely into her bag, and patted it with a little skip of pure glee as she headed home, hours and hours of nothing but Sam, Dean and their new adventure ahead of her.

* * *

“Freaking Minnesota,” Dean Winchester complained as he stripped off his drenched jacket and dropped it on the floor of the motel room with a squelch. A puddle of rainwater spread out immediately from the fabric. “Freaking rain. Why can’t we work a hunt in say, Florida sometime?”

“It rains in Florida,” Sam said mildly. “Quite a lot, in fact.”

“Yeah, well….at least they have alligators,” Dean returned.  
Sam gave him a look that was somewhere between archetypal-bitch and sometimes-I-seriously-think-you’ve-had-one-too-many-concussions. “I promise if we ever hear about a hunt that in some way, shape or form, involves alligators, we can take it,” he said somberly.

“You’d better, bitch,” Dean grumbled. “And I’m _still_ not convinced we aren’t dealing with a regular human nutjob.”

“Three suspicious deaths in the same office building, on the same date, each thirty years apart? It must be a very   
_old_ human nutjob, Dean.”

“Well this state does have one thing going for it, I guess,” Dean sat philosophically on his bunk and reached for his backpack.

A stomach-churning stench assailed Sam’s nostrils.

“Dude!” he choked, covering his face with the sleeve of his hoodie, “What _is_ that?”

“Blue cheese,” said Dean happily, and took an enormous bite directly out of the chunk in his hand. Sam gagged. “What? Thishiza local special-y!” demanded Dean with his mouth full.

Sam coughed. “That is vile. Where did you even get that?”

“Gas station.” Dean swallowed, mercifully. “While you were in the bathroom forever, doing whatever you do in there. And I don’t want to know.”

“They sold _cheese_ at the gas station?”

“I told you, it’s a local specialty.”

“You are a freak,” Sam pronounced. “You should not be allowed to roam free amongst normal humans.”

“Freaks have more fun, Sammy,” Dean advised him. “If there’s one lesson worth learning in this life, it is to never, ever, be suckered in by the ways of normal humans.” He crumbled the cheese paper into a ball and threw it in Sam’s face.

* * *

Lara unlocked the front door and paused, listening. 

“Oh hi honey,” said her dad, coming out of the kitchen suddenly. Lara jumped about a mile in the air and dropped her bag.

“What on earth is the matter Lara?” said Dad, frowning, as Lara scrabbled to pick up her possessions. Of course, Barkley took that moment to come galumphing into the hallway, tail wagging like a propeller, and clamped his eager Labrador jaws around the pristine new book.

“Barkley, no!” cried Lara, and dad said, “Drop it!” Barkley obeyed the master of the house with alacrity: 

“Another one?” Dad asked with vague disapproval: “Don’t you have enough of those _Supernatural_ comics?”

“They’re not comics,” Lara snapped, wiping the book off and noting with relief the minimal damage-by-Barkley-slime. 

“They’re illustrated novels.”

“Yes, well…it’s not really the sort of book college interviewers are going to want to talk about.”

“I’m gonna have plenty to talk about in my interviews, Dad,” she sighed. “Can we not have this conversation again?”

Dad held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I just want the best for you Lara, you know that. You’re a very intelligent girl. You didn’t start wasting your time on those comics until last year.”

“I’m going to my room,” Lara said, heading for the staircase, then realized she’d better modify her tone: “Uh, Dad?   
Can Abby sleep over tonight?”

“If you’ve both done your homework and it’s alright with her parents. I expect you both to _sleep_ , though, not stay up all night chatting.”

“We wiiillll,” said Lara. “Thankyoudad.” And ran up the stairs, clutching her prize to her chest. ‘Well, so what,’   
she told herself fiercely. ‘It’s not like he would get it.’ She flung herself face down her bed, shoving books and papers aside, and pressed _Simon Said_ deeply to her face, closing her eyes. Then she opened them, ran her fingers with pleasure down the fresh spine, and turned to the first page. 

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

“Wow,” sighed Abby, flopping back on Lara’s bed with an audible thump.

“I know, right,” Lara shook her head. It was 3 a.m., and after several hours of solid combined speed-reading, they had managed to finish their first run-though of _Simon Said_. Next time they would go back, read more slowly, savouring the text and images, poring over every frame. This time they just had to know what happened.

“The emotion, the emotion,” Abby muttered, bringing her fists up to rub at her eyes, shoving her glasses off her face. “He wouldn’t, would he? Sam wouldn’t…?”

“No,” said Lara firmly. “That’s not who he is. Carver Edlund knows that: that’s why we had Andy’s story, so we’d know it was possible to resist the Dark Side, and that Sam could do it.”

“But Andy killed his brother,” Abby pointed out.

“So? He had to. His brother was evil.”

“Hmm. Do you ever think…” Abby sat up, and an expression of thoughtful trepidation came over her face. “Do you ever think the boys could end up, like, in _opposition_ to each other?”

Lara froze, and her mouth opened slightly. “No. That – that would be tragic.”

“Maybe it _is_ a tragedy,” Abby pointed out. “It would be very Greek. Or Shakespearean.”

“Shut up,” Lara threw a pillow at her. “Edlund wouldn’t do that.” She paused. “If he does, we’ll have to hunt him down and make him fix it. Total _Misery_ situation.”

“Unf.” Abby turned over onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow Lara had thrown at her. “Sam, Dean, why are  
you so awesome? Why aren’t real people as awesome as you? I want to have sex with Carver Edlund’s brain. I want to have its brain-babies.”

Lara snorted with laughter: “Keep it down! You’re gonna wake my parents up! And then they’re gonna want to know why you’re talking about having sex with brains, and probably ban me from seeing you forever.”

“I would break the ban,” Abby said seriously. “You could sneak out. We’d be like the platonic Romeo and Juliet. Only without all the dying.”

Lara grinned and launched herself out of her desk chair, landing on the bed next to Abby. School sucked, and the future was a vast uncertainty, but for now, she had _Supernatural_ and her best friend. It would do.

* * *

“The building that is currently Chambers and Chambers has gone through several companies,” Sam opened a manila envelope and spread several pieces of photocopied paper on the diner table.

“Chambers and Chambers,” Dean grinned. “Dude, that is so like appropriate for a haunted building.”  
“Well does it have? Chambers?”

“No. It’s a regular office. Towerblock,” Dean shrugged. 

“Right now it’s a general contractor for construction and development. In the nineties it was a software company for a little while, and before that an advertising firm, a stock brokers and an accountancy.”

“They all failed? Are we thinking spirits of suicidal pro-business Republicans?”

“No, some of them relocated.”

“Huh,” Dean frowned, and peeled the sticker off his beer bottle. “And no deaths on the premisis before the first killing.”

“Which _definitely_ sounds like a ghost.”

“STOP PRESS: Grisly death at Woking and Sons,” Sam read out, spreading a photocopy of the Bayfield Bugle front page, dated Friday, January 14, 1936. “Police suspect suicide; victim’s reason in question. As a pale sun rose over Bayfield yesterday-”

“Dude,” Dean snorted. “It’s like a dime novel.”

“Shut up. As pale sun rose over Bayfield yesterday, cleaning staff at Woking and Sons’ accountancy made a gruesome discovery. The body of Mr. James P. Fitchfield II, a senior clerk at the firm, was discovered stabbed with a letter opener thrust through the middle of throat. Mr. Fitchfield is suspected to have been distraught at the recent loss of his wife. Mrs. James Fitchfield disappeared on- ”

“What?!” Dean interrupted again. “ _Mrs. James_?”

“It’s how they used to identify women,” Sam sighed. “It means she was married to James P. Fitchfield II, who was a clerk.”

“What was her name?”

“That was her name.”

“Her _actual name_?”

“It doesn’t say. It would have been disrespectful to give a first name for a married woman.”

“It’s pretty cool that they actually wrote ‘STOP PRESS’ in those days. Like some dude ran in in a trilby hat all ‘hold the front page!’ right when they were going to print it.” Dean got that slightly vague grin on his face when he imagined himself in some other profession he considered sufficiently badass. Journalist wouldn’t have made Sam’s expected list, but they had watched _All the President’s Men_ the previous week, and Dean had been on a Robert Redford kick ever since. 

“Alright, carry on.”

“ _Thank you_. Mrs. James Fitchfield disappeared on the seventh of November last, and has been declared presumed dead by the police. Colleagues report that Mr. Fitchfield had appeared pale and agitated the past week, had talked frequently of seeing his wife’s ghost in fearful and distracted tones. It goes on like that,” Sam scanned the rest of the page quickly. “Some quotes from the bosses, his maid, blah blah blah.”

“Nobody ganks themselves with a letter opener,” Dean said. “And if they do they cut their wrists. You couldn’t even get the force behind it to stab yourself in the throat.”

“So the most likely explanation is he killed her and she came back for revenge. But what does she want with the other dudes? Derek C. Layton, ad-man, killed 1966, and now Carlos Hermanadaz, 2006, who didn’t even work for the company. He was contracted to move some storage boxes out of the basement. A box fell on the back of his neck and severed his spinal column.”

“Our ghost has a thing about necks.”

“He strangled her?”

“Could be. Don’t let her strangle _you_ ,” Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. Sam rolled his eyes. 

“But the question is, why does she care about these other guys?”

“Dunno, don’t care. We find and burn her.”

“That’s gonna be pretty hard, given that the police couldn’t find her in 1936.” Sam narrowed his eyes at the newspaper in front of her. “The maid in this article is referred to as a girl. Miss Leticia Langford, 16. If she was 16 in 1936….”

“She could still be alive. Well, just.”

 

* * *

“Do you actually believe in the supernatural?”

Lara’s bag bounced against her side rhythmically as they walked.

“No,” Abby said.

“What, not at all?”

“No.”

“Middle of the night, darkened house, creepy noise creaking about downstairs….?”

“It’s probably grandma.”

Lara snorted with laughter and hit Abby in the arm. “You’re so mean.”

“Yeah, I shouldn’t. She is 86. But she drives me crazy sometimes.”

“She’s just a confused old lady.”

“ _You_ don’t have to live with her. Or get blessed with a rosary twice a day, touched with holy water, etcetera. I  
know, she thinks she’s looking out for us. In her own way.”

“Uh oh. Cool kids at 1 o clock,” Lara stopped short. A clique of the class jerks, footballers and cheerleaders, was hanging around on the corner barring their usual route. Some of the bullies’ eyes tracked them narrowly, smirking at the recognition of prey.

“Backtrack,” Abby gulped. “Detour.”

“We’ll be late.”

“At least we’ll be physically and psychologically _whole_.”

“You win.” They hurried back the way they’d came.

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

“Let’s go to yours,” Lara said as they approached the turning for her own house. “My parents are all on my case about college again.”

“My house sucks.”

“It doesn’t suck.”

“It does suck. My room is the size of a wardrobe. Bratty’s room _is_ a wardrobe.” In contrast to Lara’s spacious home, Abby’s mother rented a two-bedroom terrace. Her brother Matty used to sleep downstairs, but since her grandma had moved in they’d had no choice but to convert the living room into a mini-apartment. As the youngest, Matty was relegated to an upstairs laundry cupboard that could just about house a bunk. There was also a great deal of _stuff_ in the house – none of the residents were particularly organized, and most of the surfaces and part of the floors were covered in knick-knacks and boxes.

“Better than being harassed by the control freaks. Especially when we’ve got…” Lara raised her eyebrows.

“Yes!” Abby exclaimed. In her backpack was a new copy of FX magazine, which promised '20 Questions With Carver Edlund’ in a small text box in the bottom corner of the cover.

They skipped over the spilled trash can of Abby’s neighbor, averting their eyes from the closed blinds, and entered the little terrace house, kicking off their shoes in the hallway.

* * *

“There,” said Sam, indicating quickly for Dean to turn the car into a sidestreet. “Roger Street.”

“I ain’t leaving her parked around here,” Dean scowled, laying a protective hand on the dashboard. “What kind of girl d’you she is?”

Sam blew out his breath in exasperation. “Well what do you want to do?”

“Go park her back on the main road. Walking’s good for you.”

Twenty minutes later, they approached the little terrace house on foot, faces schooled in their best earnest expressions. Sam knocked, and after a moment, footsteps came clattering down the staircase, a couple of blurred shapes visible through the patterned glass. A teenaged girl opened the door, looking less than happy to be have her day interrupted. She had light caramel skin, glasses, and a mass of curly dark hair. A taller blond of the same age peered over her shoulder.

“Yeah?” said the girl who had opened the door.

“Um, hi,” said Sam. “We were wondering if Mrs. Leticia Cooper lived here?”

“Yeah, she’s my grandma,” said the girl. 

Sam could feel Dean tense behind him with the excitement of a lead. Schooling his voice to polite neutrality, he went on,

“Would it be possible for us to talk to her?”

The girl shook her head. “My mom deals with all her stuff now. Come back later,” she started to close the door.

“Wait!” Dean spoke up for the first time and the girl hesitated. “See, the thing is,” he turned the full force of his most charming smile on both the girls, and Sam noticed the blond grinning back a bit: “It’s something only Mrs. Cooper can help us with. We’re journalists,” he flashed a fake badge from a credible-sounding paper, “And we’re researching a book. On local history. We’re talking to some of the towns’ older residents about their memories – first jobs, things like that…”

“Oh, well…” the girl looked uncomfortable. “She probably won’t be much help. She’s not, you know…” she gestured vaguely towards her head.

“But she remembers the old days really well!” the blond objected. She was still smiling at Dean, and Sam supressed an eye-roll. At that moment, an old African-American woman appeared in the hallway behind the girls. She was stooped over a walking frame, making her small frame appear even smaller, and her whitening hair was pulled back into a bun. Her face was deeply lined . But her dark eyes flashed with an intelligence that belied her grand-daughter’s opinions:

“Abigail?” She asked . “Who’s at the door?”

“No-one grandma,” said the girl with exaggerated patience. “Go on back.”

“You just mind your tone,” said the old woman sharply. “What do these young men want?”

“Good afternoon Ma’am,” Sam said politely, flashing his own ID. “We’re from the Wisconsin Chronicle, and we’re researching a book on local history. Also legends, things like that…” he probed carefully.

“And I suppose you want to know about the Fitchfield spirit,” said the old woman, nodding grimly. “Well, you’d better come in. Abigail, put the coffee on.”

“ _Grandma_ ,” Abigail sounded torn. “It’s not _real_.” Then: “See, you’re just making her worse!” to Sam and Dean.

“Um, hello? Who is this?” A new voice spoke up suddenly from behind. Sam turned around to see a White woman in her forties, holding a shopping bag in one arm and keys in her other hand.

“ _Mom_ ,” said the teenager pointedly. “These reporters want to talk to _grandma_. For a book about the old days.”

“I’m afraid my mother-in-law really isn’t up to that,” said the woman firmly. “You’ll have to talk to someone else.” She brushed past them and entered the house. The small hallway was by now extremely crowded. “Hello Lara, nice to see you. ”  
“Now Elaine, I’m quite willing,” said the old woman. “Lord knows I’ve nothing better to do than talk these days. It’s as well for people to remember these things. Folk forget , and that’s dangerous.”

“See, that’s what we think,” said Sam eagerly. “Local history ought to be preserved, local folklore.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” said the woman firmly. “Excuse me, I have to unpack this.” She disappeared into what Sam assumed was the kitchen.

“At least take our card,” Dean tried to reach the fake business card through to the old woman, but the granddaughter intercepted it and said, “Okay bye.” And closed the door in their faces.

“Crap,” said Dean.

“We could come back,” Sam suggested uneasily. “Try to get Leticia alone.”

“But if the mom catches us again, she’s probably report us for harassment,” Dean scowled. “I said we should have gone   
with cops.”

“No, _I_ said we should have gone with cops. You wanted to be Robert Redford.”

“I'm tired of your chicken shit games!” said Dean, sounding more like a New York taxi driver than a Washington Post reporter: “I don't want hints! I need to know what you know!”

“Back to the records office I guess,” Sam sighed. 

* * *

“So that was weird,” said Abby, once they’d retreated to the privacy of her bedroom.

Lara made a noise somewhere between indignation and disbelief. She waved her hands emphatically.

“What?” said Abby.

“What? _What_? Abigail, was that not the single hottest man you ever seen in your life?”

“He was pretty hot,” Abby admitted. “They both were.”

“And you practically told them to get lost.”

“Well, it was creepy! They could be murderers! You think reporters really just turn up on people’s doorsteps?”

“Or they could be hunters,” Lara suggested. The girls looked at each other and snorted with laughter.

“They kind of looked like,” Lara said wistfully. “I mean if they were real people. Tall, green-eyed and gorgeous plus taller,   
slightly-less-hot and long-haired.”

Abby hit her. “Sam’s hotter than Dean, jerk.”

“In what universe?”

“The smart people’s universe. Anyway, speaking of….” She produced the magazine from her bag. They flicked rapidly to advertised interview, skimmed the blurb introducing Edlund and the small image of the writer smiling awkwardly into the camera.

“Question one,” Abby read out, “Where do you get your ideas?”

_CE: I would have to say from dreams, mostly. It’s a weird thing. I go to sleep with nothing in my head, and then it’s like bang! New story._

“Awesome,” Lara said. “I wish I could do that.”

“ _Your_ dreams would go in the restricted section,” said Abby.

“Yeah well yours would go in the bargain bin,” retorted Lara, then elaborated: “Because they’re lame.”

“Um, Lar?” Abby had suddenly turned pale. Her eyes were very wide.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Abby pointed silently to the magazine page. Lara quickly read:

_Question 2: What’s coming up next for Sam and Dean?_

_CE: Well, I don’t like to say too much. But I just had the idea last night, so I’m pretty psyched about it. They’ll be going undercover as reporters to investigate the mysterious past of a small town in Wisconsin. They’ll meet some uh, interesting characters [giggles]_.

Lara and Abby stared at each other, wide-eyed.

“No,” Lara said. “It couldn’t be.”

“Could it?” Abby asked.

“Abs,” Lara gulped and put the magazine down carefully. “I think you’d better get that card out.”

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” said Lara. “Abby, I am freaking out. I am officially freaking out. This cannot be real. But can it?!”

“Calm down woman!” Abby grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “This is not the time to panic!”

“Oh I don’t know, given that we’ve just found out that Sam and Dean could very possibly be real people, that we could conceivably _just have been talking to them_ , which means that they are _here_ , on a hunt, _in search of actual freaking monsters_ , I’d say this is the perfect time to panic!”

“SHHHH!” Abby clamped a hand forcefully over Lara’s mouth. “We have to…”

“We have to what? What exactly is the default plan for this situation?”

“Think rationally. First, it could be a co-incidence.”

“That is a freaking enormous co-incidence, Abigail.”

“Well, what then? Ghosts are real? Sam and Dean are real? No,” Abby shook her head. “It’s impossible. I’ll prove it.”

“How?”

Abby dug in her pocket and produced the card. “We’ll call them.”

“And?”

“Test them. Ask them stuff only Sam and Dean would know.”

“But if they’re pretending to be undercover, they’re not exactly gonna just answer us.”

“We’ll have to be smart about it.” Abby got out her mobile, and drew a deep breath. Then her nerve failed her. “I can’t!” she exclaimed, and thrust it at Lara. “You do it.”

Lara drew a deep breath, then another one. Very slowly, with shaking hands, she dialled the number impressed on the business card that the tall one – Sam?!? – had given to Abby. It read, ‘P L Wethers, Wisconsin Chronicle’, followed by a mobile number.

“Hello?” said the voice she recognized from the doorstep after only a couple of rings. A car engine grumbled in the background, and Lara had visions of a sleek, black Impala. 

“Who is this?” she demanded.

“Who is _this_?” returned the male voice.

“This is Lara Brown,” Lara said, with all the gravitas she could muster. “You came to my friend Abby’s doorstep just now and wanted to talk her grandmother.” 

There was a beat’s pause on the other end of the line, as though the man were communicating with someone next to him. Abby was hopping from foot to foot very slightly with her hands over her mouth.

“Did Mrs Cooper change her mind?” said the male voice politely.

“First tell me who you are,” said Lara.

“My name is Peter Wethers, I work for-”

“67 Impala!” Yelled Abby. Then she clamped her hands over her mouth again and squeaked. Lara groaned.

The voice on the line drew a sharp breath, then quickly covered it. “Ex – excuse me?” In the background, Lara heard someone exclaim, ‘dude!’, then scuffling, then a deeper voice that she immediately placed as belonging to the extremely hot guy demanded, “Where are you? How did you know that?”

“You’re not really reporters,” Lara said carefully, heart pounding in her chest.

There was a pause on the other end of the line, then the man asked,

“Why would you think that?”

“You’re here….because of the ghost,” said Lara.

Pause.

“What do you know about the ghost?”

“HOLY SHIT!” yelled Lara. “DID CARVER EDLUND SEND YOU?”

“Argh!” dead air filled the line as it was obviously yanked away from someone’s ear. Then,

“What? Who the hell is Carver Edlund?!”

“Oh my God,” Lara said again. “Look – Dean - we know all about you and Sam. Seriously, we’re your biggest fans. We read all Edlund’s reports. I kind of hoped – I wondered, sometimes, if he could be writing things that were actually true, but that was totally a fantasy.”

“Um,” there was a nervous chuckle on the other end of the line. “Let me call you back.” And it went dead.

“Oh well done,” said Abby crossly. “Now you’ve gone and made us sound totally crazy.”

“Well, this is a totally crazy situation!” Lara sat down on Abby’s bed and put her head in her hands. After a moment Abby sat down next to her.

“This is all just a very big co-incidence,” Abby said after a moment.

“Right,” Lara said. “It’s got to be.”

 

* * *

“No camera,” Dean decided finally, having thoroughly searched the front and back seats of the Impala.

“What did you expect?” Sam snorted from his makeshift seat on the scrubby verge. “High school bugged you?”

“You didn’t see how she was looking at me man,” Dean said seriously. “Chicks do crazy things for this.” He indicated vaguely in the direction of himself.

“Right, whatever. So we’re back to square one. How do these kids know who we are?”

“And who is _Carver Edlund_?” Dean made quotey fingers around the elaborate name. “Get back in the car, its safe.”

Sam smirked and repressed a comment about whether Dean was expecting to find a bomb or what. They resumed their usual seats, but Dean didn’t start the engine.

“Well whatever,” Sam said. “They’re our best lead.” And he started to get his phone out again. 

“Sammy!” Dean grabbed the phone off him. “Don’t just - we don’t know anything about them, or what they want! They could be - you know – like...Anselm. Or Max.” A troubled expression flitted across his face.

“Like me, you mean,” said Sam flatly.

“No, like Anselm or Max. Who were murderers.”

“Or, they could be like Andy, who pretty much was our best ally back in Olkaholma. It’s the most reasonable explanation, Dean. Plus they don’t seem to need convincing that stuff is real, and they’re willing to help. I’m calling them.” He put out his hand for the phone back. Dean hesitated, and Sam glared.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop this overprotective bullshit. You can trust me not to go darkside, so trust me not to be dumb enough to get us killed by talking to the wrong people.”

“Alright, Jesus!”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything! Christ, Sam, is it that time of the month or something?”

Sam flipped the phone open, giving Dean the finger with his other hand, and pressed the button for redial.

 

* * *

“ARGH!” exclaimed Abby and practically jumped off the bed when her phone rang again. “It’s them,” she looked at the number. 

“Answer it!” yelled Lara. Abby took a deep breath, pressed the button for connect, then said coolly,

“You’ve reached Abigail Cooper.”

“Hi,” said the now-familiar voice. “So, this is Sam.”

Abby covered the mouthpiece with her hand, opened her mouth in a silent OH MY GOD! And clutched Lara’s hand her with free one. 

“Hello Sam,” she said in the same voice. “I’m quite the follower of yours and your brother’s adventures.”

Lara pretended to shoot herself, mouthing, FOLLOWER?!?

“Yeah so, how is that?” Sam asked a little hesitantly. “I’m guessing you have visions?”

“No,” said Abby, mystified. “I read the books.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Carver Edlund’s books. You know, the guy who chronicles your hunts.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then,

“Abigail, I think we should meet each other. Like, all four of us,” he said quickly. “Me and my brother and you and your friend. As you seem to know, there’s a ghost-”

“GHOSTS ARE REAL! Holy shit, ghosts are real. I’m sorry, I just need a moment to….”

“Uh, that’s okay,” Sam laughed a little nervously. “We can get to that. Listen, time is sort of of the essence, so, can you get out tonight. Wait, how old are you anyway?”

“Seventeen,” said Abby. “Lara’s sixteen.” Lara hit her, and Abby rubbed her arm.

“Okay…so are you allowed out?”

“Of course!” Abby’s mind raced. This could not, literally be happening. “Listen, there’s a diner on twelfth street called George’s. Like three blocks from my house. Oh my God, it will be perfect. It’s totally the kind of place you would go to. Absolutely mom and pop. Meet us there in twenty minutes.”

“Sure,” Sam said, and hung up. Abby clicked the off button, threw herself face-down on the bed, and yelled,

“OH MY ACTUAL GOD!” at the top of her lungs, directly into her pillow. Lara flung herself on of Abby and muffled her own exclamation into her hands.

“I just – Abby, it’s real. It’s all real. We _met Sam and Dean. We are going to meet them_. World,” she exclaimed helplessly. “I love you.”

“Yet but,” Abby suddenly sobered. “You know what this means.”

“What?”

“Hookman? Women in White? Wendigos? Demons? All the bad shit is real too.”

They grabbed each other’s hands quickly.

“And ghosts,” Lara said finally. “And there’s a ghost right here, in this town.”

“Well,” Abby blew out her breath and a strand of her hair out of her eyes. “There’s only one thing for it I guess. We got to help hunt it.”

TBC.


	5. Chapter 5

“What do I wear?” wailed Lara.

“You don’t have time to get changed!” Abby told her. “Besides, he’s already seen you dressed exactly like you are.”

Lara glared in rage at her warm but decidedly unglamorous sweatshirt and thick jeans. “Figures. The one day I meet the man of my dreams and I’m dressed like a hobo.”

“You never look like a hobo,” Abby rolled her eyes. “Besides, don’t you think Dean will be more impressed by you actually helping to solve the case?”

“No, that’s what Sam would be impressed by. Dean is impressed by hot chicks.”

“Only briefly. Inside, he’s actually all vulnerable. You know he just wants a stable relationship and the knowledge that Sam will be safe and happy.” They looked at each other and sighed in unison. Then:

“This is weird,” Lara said. “We actually know everything about these guys, and they don’t know anything about us.”

“That _is_ weird,” Abby agreed. “Unless…”

“What?”

“Unless Carver Edlund has been lying. You know, making them seem all heroic and good, but in real life they’re dicks.”  
An expression of horror crossed Lara’s face. Then they looked at each other and said,

“Nah,” grabbed their bags, and left for the diner.

 

* * *

“There,” Sam said, pointing to a corner booth with a little wave. The teenage girls – Abigail and Lara – immediately sat up straighter upon seeing him and Dean. Lara flashed a flirtatious smile.

“I feel creepy,” Dean complained. 

“That never stopped you before.”

“It looks like we’re on a double date with a couple of high school chicks.”

“Yeah well,” Sam shrugged. “If we’re gonna start worrying what normal people think, there’s a backlist the length of our lives needing analysis…”

Thankfully, the diner was all but deserted – an elderly couple in one of the back booths, and a guy reading a newspaper and drinking coffee made up the rest of the patronage. The lone waitress was a woman in her thirties who looked far too bored to bother about the age-inappropriate relations of her clients.

“Alright, first things first – who is Carver Edlund?” Dean demanded, the second they sat down. The girls looked disconcerted and Sam frowned.

“I’m sorry, ignore my brother. We’d just like to know how you know about us, please? And – what exactly you think you know?”

“Are you kidding?” Lara exclaimed. “You’re our heroes!”

It was Dean’s turn to look uncomfortable. 

“We think it’s pretty awesome,” took up Abigail. “How you basically sacrifice your happiness to fight evil. Now that the demon’s dead, you could’ve given it all up – Sam, you could have gone back to Stanford.”

Sam felt his stomach drop a little. “How – how do you know about that?”

“The first book! Dean went and got you from Stanford. You mean, you don’t _know_ that your lives are recorded?”

“What!?” Dean almost yelled, then lowered his voice. “Recorded where? How?”

“In these.” Lara reached into her bag, and produced a cheap-looking black paperback. She placed it on the table. The word ‘SUPERNATURAL’ was emblazoned across the front in white, vaguely Gothic lettering, and under it: ‘VOLUME 27: SIMON SAID’. On the cover was a pictures that reminded Sam of the big-eyed, big-breasted stylized cartoons Dean sometimes perused on the laptop, except this one was a dude, wearing a horrified expression and with what appeared to be lightning bolts running to and from his head. He had big dark eyes and dark hair, pleasant features, and reminded Sam abruptly of– 

“Andy?!” Dean exclaimed. He grabbed the book and started to flick through it. The color drained from his face dramatically.

“Sam,” he gulped.

“What?!” Sam tried to lean over to see what he was looking at.

“This is….about _us_ , dude. You and me. I mean, it’s….it’s the hunt. With Andy. As a _cartoon_ ,”

“Graphic novel, actually,” said Abigail.

“What the- ?!” Sam grabbed the book from Dean. His stomach flipped with a mix of horror and astonishment as he took in the panels – it was him and Dean. In cartoon form. On their last hunt. In Oklahoma. 

“Where did you get this?” he asked the girls.

“Forbidden Planet,” Lara said. “Mainstream bookstores don’t always get them as soon as they come out.”

Sam turned back to the cover and read the name _Carver Edlund_. He wracked his brain, but the name meant nothing to him.

“He’s a psychic?” he asked Dean quietly.

“Or a spy,” said Dean darkly. “Either way, he’s dead. What kind of freak would get off on writing this? Making money off it? Who would _derive entertainment_ from the epic shitstorm that has been our l-uhhh, no offense,” he amended, realizing that Abby was glaring and Lara was looking at him with a vaguely wounded look on her face.

“Well it’s better than soap operas,” said Abby huffily. “Other girls our age watch _Days of our Lives_.  
 _Supernatural_ has _narrative_. It has _meaning_. It has archetypes and references and all that. It has _irony_.”

“Can I take your order?” the waitress interrupted, and now she was looking at them slightly oddly, taking the situation in close up. 

“Coffee, black with sugar,” said Dean without any of his usual charm.

“I think my cousins and I need a few more minutes, please,” said Sam cordially, which placated her a little bit, but caused an odd expression to cross Lara’s face and Abby to dig her in the ribs. 

“Irony,” grumbled Dean. “It’s our _lives_ , apparently. And believe me, we’re gonna hunt this guy down and-”

“He could help us,” Sam said.

“What?”

“Well, think about it,” the wheels were turning fast in Sam’s brain. “It takes like a year for a book to get published from the time its written. Six or seven months at least. This happened _last month_. That means this – Edlund – is seeing what happens to us _before it happens_. That means he knows…” he turned wide eyes to Dean.

“He doesn’t know shit,” Dean said shortly.

At that moment, they were interrupted by a newscaster. Someone had turned up the little TV in the corner of the diner to full volume. All the patrons had stopped to listen.

“- the second death at Chambers and Chambers within a week. Police are now treating the deaths as suspicious, and the offices have been closed and declared a crime scene until further notice.”

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Lara.

“Shh!” Abby smacked her leg. Lara forcefully controlled herself.

“Larry Bacon, 47, was a full time janitor at the firm. His body was discovered this afternoon in the lower storage basement, his neck cleanly severed at the third vertebrae. Forensics say breaks of this type can be the result of falls and other accidents, but the position of the body makes this unlikely.”

“Crap,” Dean muttered. “It’s crossed the veil.”

“Carver Edlund will have to wait,” Sam said. “We have to stop this. Now.”

“This is a ghost,” said Abby, low and urgent. “This is an actual ghost, right?”

“Looks that way,” Dean said. “And right now your grandma is our best source of information. Her maiden name was Langford, right?”

“Yes!” said Abby. “How did you-?”

“They researched it, obviously!” Lara poked her. “We can talk to her for you,” Eagerly, she grabbed a notepad from her bag. 

“What do you need to know?”

“Okay, first things first…” Sam drew a breath, gathered his thoughts. “In nineteen thirty-six, when she was working as a maid for James Fitchfield and his wife….”

* * *

“Wow,” Lara said.

“Wow,” Abby agreed.

They were sitting on the front steps of George’s diner, the beautiful black Impala having growled off into the sunset – the actual sunset! – just moments earlier. Lara was still starting longingly after it. They knew they should get going, get on with the case, but they needed a few minutes to let everything that had just been confirmed sink into their minds.

“It’s all real,” Lara said.

“It’s all real.”

“Dean is an actual human being.”

“Sam is an actual-”

“Weren’t they _perfect_?”

“They were perfectly sexually attractive, that’s for sure. Dean was kind of a jerk.”

“You know that’s just part of his badboy persona.”

“Yeah.” They sighed in unison.

“There’s an actual ghost,” Abby took up.

“In this town.”

“That means grandma…”

“Is kind of….not crazy?” asked Lara tentatively.

Abby shook her head. “Okay, now I feel bad. The salt, the protection charms…”

“She really knows what she’s talking about.”

"I totally shouldn't have mad fun of her."

“Totally.”

"Hey, you made fun of her too!"

“So!” Lara stood up and dusted off her jeans, then extended a hand to Abby. “Let’s go interview the witness.”

“Oh my God!” Abby had brief and miniature freakout. “We’re hunters!”

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Abby knocked tentatively on the living room door that now served as the entrance to her grandma’s apartment. Picking up her friend’s mood, Lara felt suddenly bashful. She’d met the older Mrs. Cooper hundreds of times and talked to her plenty, but actually – well - _interviewing_ her was a different thing. The old woman had once referred to Lara as ‘the little blond girl’ right in front of her, and though Lara knew Mrs. Cooper had trouble remembering names a lot of the time, it still rankled.

“Grandma?” asked Abby loudly. The old woman appeared not to hear them. The curtains were drawn, and the flickering television set cast weird lights across the room. Mrs. Cooper’s eyes were open, but she stared at nothing that Lara could see. Abby stepped just inside the doorway and jigged up and down a little, catching her grandmother’s attention visually:

“Oh, Abigail,” said Mrs. Cooper. “And…”

“Lara,” Lara prompted.

“Shouldn’t children be in bed?”

“It’s only eight o' clock, grandma,” said Abby.

“Well what does your mother say?”

“She says I can stay up until I want…so we were wondering, what’s the Fitchfield spirit?” Before they’d parted ways, Sam and Dean had filled the girls in on the recent spate of killings that began with the unfortunate James Fitchfield. Leticia’s mention of a Fitchfield spirit had deepened their suspicions.

The old woman turned at faced them fully, her lined face and deep eyes revealing little. 

“The Fitchfields were the people you worked for when you were young, right?” said Abby. “In the thirties?” 

“Come over here so I can hear you,” said Mrs. Cooper. They entered and perched on the overstuffed couch that was rarely used – Mrs. Cooper favoured a single chair. “Why do you ask now, children?” Mrs. Cooper.

“Well….well….okay,” Abby said. “I’m writing a ghost story…”

“Don’t you lie to me, missy. I know that tone.” 

Lara jumped. She had never heard Mrs. Cooper sound so sharp, or so – aware.

“Grandma, you believe in ghosts, right?” Abby changed tactics.

Mrs. Cooper fixed them both with her black eyes. “Ghosts,” she repeated, “Spirits. Call them what you will. There’s more to this world than folk know, and that’s for sure.”

“Have you ever seen one?” Lara asked eagerly.

Mrs. Cooper was silent. In her knobbed hand she fiddled with a string of wooden beads, threading them through her fingers stiffly, one by one. “I believe it,” she said at last.

“Me too,” said Abigail. “I mean, I didn’t used to. But now I do.”

“Me too,” put in Lara.

“And just what caused this change of affairs?” said the old woman archly. “Nothing to do with those two handsome young men comin' round asking after the spirit?”

Abby and Lara exchanged startled look.

“I may be old, but I ain’t blind,” said Mrs. Cooper. “You think I was never sixteen?” It struck Lara suddenly that Mrs. Cooper had been her own age when she’d worked full-time as a maid for the wealthy family. Lara attempted to picture herself in a thirties maid outfit, a long skirt and apron and one of those white hats. “We might not of been so obvious about it in those days,” Mrs. Cooper went on, “and we never would of looked at a White boy in public,that's for sure.” She addressed that last part specifically to Abby. “But you don’t get to my age without knowing a thing or two about how the world works. You want to find out about the spirit, then go running to those fine young men just as helpful as anything. It’s nothing to be playing games with.” 

“We know, Mrs. Cooper,” said Lara seriously. “That’s why we need to hear about the spirit. Did   
he kill her?”

Abby shot her a derisive look like, way to lay all our cards on the table, but Mrs. Cooper just looked thoughtful and press her fingers together. 

“No,” she said finally. “I don’t believe so. But he might as well have, and the other too, for what he did to them."

 

* * *

 

“You sure this is it?” Dean raised his eyebrows as he brought the Impala to a stop outside a large, well-kept detached house set back from the road a little way. A silver BMW and a practical station wagon were parked in the driveway. “Not too shabby for a janitor’s place.”

“Men aren’t always the primary earners, Dean,” Sam said in his long-suffering teacher voice, “This is the address.”

They went up to the porch and Sam rang the bell: Dean nodded coolly to the small fish-eye camera that registered visitors and straightened his collar. No-one answered.

“Mrs. Bacon?” Sam rapped the knocker: “Police.”

There was a pause, then footsteps could be heard from the other side of the door, before a slight, attractive Asian woman opened the door and said,

“Yes?”

“Um, Linda Bacon?” Dean said doubtfully.

“Mrs Bacon is resting,” said the young woman firmly and started to close the door. “She cannot speak with you.”

“Um wait,” Sam said quickly and moved to prevent her closing it completely. He displayed the detective badge with his picture: “We just have a few questions concerning the death of her husband.”

The woman looked doubtful. “The police already came.”

“It’s a follow-up investigation,” Dean said charmingly. “And who are you, might I ask?”

“Housekeeper,” said the woman shortly. 

“Did you know Mr. Bacon well?” asked Sam. The woman looked at him warily for a moment, then said,

“No. Mrs Bacon employs me.”

“Lan?” Asked a voice from the interior: “Who is it?”

“Police, Mrs Bacon. I told them they already came.”

“It’s alright.” A dishevelled woman in her forties was making her way down the staircase. She wore a dressing gown over her indoor clothes and obviously been crying. “You can let them in. Come into the sitting room, officers,” she gestured to one of the doors on the ground floor. The housekeeper still looked doubtful, but permitted Sam and Dean to pass, watching them from the corner of one eye as she disappeared through a different door.

The woman – Mrs Bacon – led Sam and Dean into a an airy living room with glass doors leading out onto a patio. “Please, sit down,” she gestured to the couch, and took a seat in a chair herself. “Lan will bring coffee in a minute.” Her voice was flat, almost robotic. Sam and Dean made their detective IDs visible as they sat, but she barely glanced at them.

“Mrs Bacon-” Sam said:

“Linda.”

“Linda - as you know, we suspect that your husband’s death might have been more than an accident. Is there anything you can tell us that might help in the investigation?”

“Anybody who might have had it in for him?” Dean said bluntly.

“No,” Linda shook her head. “Everything was fine.”

“What was your marriage like?”

“Happy.” Linda blinked. “My family thought I was crazy, of course: marrying a janitor. But I love – loved him. I have more than enough money for both of us.” Her face threatened to crumple.

“Yet he still worked?” Sam kept his tone gentle, understanding.

“He loved his job,” she said shortly. Sam glanced at Dean. Dean raised his eyebrows subtly.   
Lan entered with coffee.

“So you were still very much in love?” Sam asked, as the housekeeper poured out small china cups from an elegant coffeepot.

“Yes,” said Linda fervently.

“No arguments?” Dean said.

“No, none.”

The brothers exchanged another glance. Whilst neither could exactly claim to be an expert in relationships, Sam had never heard of a couple who never argued. A small clink of china drew his attention to Lan: her expression had changed, subtly, unreadable, but she had reacted to that assertion. They got nothing of use from Bacon: everything was perfect, their marriage was perfect, Larry had no enemies, no rivals, no jealous ex-lovers. 

“If that’s all, detectives, I’m tired.” Bacon’s face threatened to crumble. “This is a very difficult time, and there’s really nothing I can-”

“Of course,” Sam said, and gallantly offered to help her up from the chair.

“Lan will show you out,” Bacon said, and retreated to her bedroom.

“Perfect marriage huh?” Dean raised his eyebrows to Lan this time as she escorted them to the   
doorway. Lan’s mouth quirked in something like derision.

“If there’s anything you can tell us…” Sam said earnestly: “There’s a dangerous killer on the loose, ma’am, and any information, anything at all, could save innocent lives now.”

Lan hesitated, then leaned in. In a low voice, she said,

“Mr. Bacon….he liked to go to work. Because of a lady.”

'Oh'. Understanding settled over Sam.

“He was having an affair?” Sam whispered.

Lan blinked.

“They were….?” Dean made a quick obscene gesture unbecoming of a detective. 

Lan shrugged. “He liked her very much. Talked on the telephone, when Mrs. Bacon was outside. What they did, I do not know. But he did not love to be a janitor.”

“Did Mrs. Bacon know?” Sam asked.

Lan shrugged again. “Mrs. Bacon does not like to know,” she advised them.

“Thank you,” Sam said, wheels turning frantically in his head. “That could be very useful.”

“Thanks for doing your civic duty ma’am,” Dean tipped an imaginary hat at her. Lan gave him a slightly derisory look and closed the door in their faces.

TBC.


	7. Chapter 7

“There weren’t too many jobs a colored girl could do in those days,” said Mrs. Cooper. Lara winced internally at the use of the term, but she guessed that when Mrs. Cooper had been young, everyone said it. “Maid was usual, but there was some that wouldn’t even have had us in the house. Mr. Fitchfield wasn’t one of that sort – he was polite, and he paid decently, and didn’t ask for nothing unreasonable. I was luckier than most. But he knew he could count of my silence when he started bringing that secretary around.”

“He was having an affair,” said Abby, leaning forward.

“Near two years,” Mrs. Cooper agreed. ““Mrs. Fitchfield had bad nerves. Oftentimes she’d get in low spirits, and stay up in her room, and was dour to him when he came home. Then she’d be right as rain again. Now this secretary, she was a pretty young thing, little simple if you ask me, but always smiling, and with the bluest eyes you ever saw. He was smitten with her. Liked to buy her jewellery, presents. All the help knew – there was me, and Cook, and the gardener. An older gentleman he was, but fit, and he had a young boy to do the lawns…”

“Mrs. Fitchfield found out?” Lara attempted to bring the discourse to the point: “And she killed him?”

“Killed _herself_ ,” said Mrs. Cooper, “hung herself from the light fitting up in the master bedroom. And believe it, that was a scandal – her family was Catholic, and she couldn’t have been buried right or anything. So they covered it up. Burned the body in the coal furnace and said she disappeared. But that was far from the truth,” she shook her head. “If only she would have disappeared, poor woman. But she couldn’t leave.”

“You…saw her?” Lara was on the edge of her seat now.

“At first we though he was crazy, I’ll admit. Same as they thought of us after. We thought the guilt had gotten to him, he kept seein’ her places, hearin’ her. In the cellar. In the bedroom. In the dining room. Then Cook saw her, late at night, under the apple trees. Cook was a practical woman. Not the type to go jumpin’ at shadows you understand. And that night I saw her with my own eyes. Some will call it the wanderings of an old woman, and it’s true I’ve forgotten things, but I remember this just as if I were there right now.” Her eyes had taken on a distant look, simultaneously vague and perceptive. “I had just the china to polish before I finished up for the day, and I took up a large plate, and I caught it outta the corner of my eye – I turned around, and there she was. White and flickering. Rope marks still burned around her neck, in the nightgown she hung herself in. I dropped the china and smashed it. Let me tell you, I never in all my years as a maid broke a thing except that night, so don’t you tell me nothing happened.”

“What did she do?” exclaimed Abby.

“Do? Nothing. She had no business with me. Looked right through me as though I wasn’t there, then flickered out again. We burned her clothes, her things, on advice of the gardener’s boy - his own grandmother was a hoodoo woman from Louisiana. But it didn’t do no good. The very next day, they found Mr. Fitchfield dead in his office with the letter opener right through his throat. A young man inherited the house – a nephew – who had no time for it and fired all the staff. The place went to ruin,” she shrugged. 

“And what happened to the girl? The secretary?” Lara asked.

“I never did hear,” said Mrs. Cooper. “Or if I have, I’ve forgotten it. That’s the whole story girls. And now maybe you’ll listen when an old woman tells you to mind the salt, and throw a pinch over your shoulder.” The glint was back in her eye.

* * * 

“He burned the body?” Sam frowned, and paused in the notes he was making on his pad. “Like, completely?” Pause. “Well sure, I understand you can’t ask your grandma – but as far as you know - in the coal furnace. Right. Hm.” Pause. “No no it’s good – it’s just, normally, that would have sent the ghost on. What about possessions?” Pause. “Really?”

Dean made a frustrated sign like, ‘share with the class?’ and Sam waved him off, bitch-facing.

 

“How did you find out?” Pause. “Oh. Okay. Great! Scott with two t’s?” He was scribbling frantically on the notepad. “Great, we’ll follow it up.” Pause. “Um, Abby?” He got the sympathetic tone: “I think it’s best if Dean and I take it from here. Don’t get me wrong, you’ve been amazing – it’s just, things are gonna get dangerous, and well, we’re trained for this. Sure. Sure, we’ll let you know. Bye then. Bye.”

Dean resisted the urge to grab the phone from Sam and end the call himself. 

“Huh,” said Sam, sitting back on the bed and blinking. “The girls got some good intel, Dean.” Dean snatched the notepad and started trying to decipher Sam’s chicken-scratchings. “Revenant Grace Fitchfield – hung self. Fitchfield was getting it on the side?”

“With his secretary,” Sam rolled his eyes.

“And they burned the body?”

“Right. After she ended her husband, some nephew let the house fall into disrepair and eventually it got condemned.   
Knocked down. But! The woman Fitchfield was having the affair with ended up going crazy. Talked about _seeing ghosts_. Her family it seems got her put away in an asylum. What’s the bet Fitchfield gave her some item the ghost is attached to – some jewellery or whatever – that’s allowing the spirit to stay here?”

“Thelma and Louise found all that out?” Dean frowned.

“Seems they skipped school yesterday and hit the town hall of records instead. They figure Carver Edlund taught them how to _research_.” Sam looked mildly disturbed.

“Well, _Carver Edlund_ has a lot to answer for, but the research was a good call,” Dean nodded.   
Sam glanced at him, troubled and unreadable.

“What?” Dean said.

“Nothing,” Sam sighed.

“No it’s not nothing. You’re doing that whole dark-cloud-of-foreboding-and-anguish thing. What?”

“Just….” Sam set his notepad aside and made earnest eyes at Dean: “Should we really be letting them get involved like this? They’re just kids. _Normal_ kids, with normal lives, until we showed up. Now they’re skipping school….”

“ _Letting_ them? Sam, last I checked, they pretty much ambushed us wanting to help. Besides, normal kids skip   
school. _Voluntarily_ ,” he added before Sam could object.

“It’s dangerous,” Sam insisted. 

“Life’s dangerous,” Dean dismissed. “It ain’t like we’re inviting them to Chambers and Chambers. Look at it this way – we gank this ghost, one less danger in small town Wisconsin. So? What’s the word on the secretary? Still alive?”

“No, she died in the asylum,” Sam said. “It looks like she never married. As far as the girls could see there were no direct descendants on record. The papers were signed by her nephew and his wife: a couple in their fifties now. They live outside town, on a dairy farm.”

“Let’s do it,” Dean grabbed his jacket.

* * *

Abby pressed the button to disconnect the call and blew her breath out. It made a little white dragon-puff in the cold air.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay?” said Lara, jigging up and down a bit to keep warm. “So – what do we do now?”

“What can we do?” Abby blinked. “We gave them the info. Find somewhere warm to go until we can reasonably go home without alerting the folks?”

“Yes but…!” Lara gestured emphatically. “Abby! Sam and Dean – the Sam and Dean – are _here_ , in this town. Are you forgetting that? There’s a _hunt_ , an actual hunt, in this town. We can’t just….go on as normal!”

“Lara,” Abby looked serious suddenly. “I love _Supernatural_. You know it. Nobody loves it more than me. But….”

“What?”

“I love the _books_. _As books_. If they’re true…the world just got a shitload scarier.”

“And a shitload more _exciting_. _Our lives_ could mean something, Abs. Something real! Plus, Sam and Dean.”

Abby felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, the warm, giggly feeling of her crush on Sam rising abruptly in her chest.

“They are _awesome_ ,” she agreed. Then she paused. “Look, Sam promised to call me back and tell me what happens at the farm. That’s all we can do for now. Unless you wanna go investigate the haunted crime scene.”

Lara raised her eyebrows.

“We’re not gonna go investigate the haunted crime scene,” Abby said.

“Bitch,” grumbled Lara.

“Jerk.”

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: An extra installment as I many not have time to post next week.

* * *

Dairy farm seemed a generous term for the Scott homestead. Martin Scott, the nephew of one Esmeralda Scott, former secretary to James Fitchfield , lived in a medium detached house on a lot with some steel sheds, which Sam supposed housed the cows when it was time to milk them. Sam counted a grand total of five cows standing blankly around in the scrub, chewing the winter grass mechanically.

“Dude,” Dean shivered. “Cows give me the creeps.”

“Your day job is hunting the supernatural, and cows give you the creeps?”

“They have dark minds,” Dean insisted. “Look them. Thinking their evil thoughts…” He regarded one of the staring cows suspiciously from the corner of his eye. The cow continued to chew.

“I’m not sure they have _thoughts_.”

“They’ve got you fooled. I swear man. I can see it in their eyes. They’re not right, and people who live with them ain’t right either. You should eat more burgers, Sammy, consider it a duty to humanity.”

“I think you eat enough for the both of us,” Sam said, and rang the bell.

“Someone’s gotta pick up your slack.” 

Martin Scott was a sturdy, plain-faced man in middle-age, who regarded Sam and Dean as though nothing they could say would possibly surprise him, suits and badges or no. Sam had to admit he bore an unsettling resemblance to his cows, and Dean lifted his eyebrows at Sam like, ‘What did I tell you?’

“Yep?”

“Mr. Scott? I’m detective Young, this is detective Williams, we’re investigating a series of robberies and we’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

“You don’t look like cops. Where’s the uniform?”

“We’re from upstate,” Dean glared at him. “This a serious investigation, Mr. Scott, and it seems like your little local station saw fit to call in some serious investigators.”

“Is that so?” Scott raised his eyebrows very slightly. He didn’t invite them in.

“We have reason to believe at least one valuable stolen artefact is in your possession,” Sam said. “It would have come from an aunt on your father’s side – Esmeralda Scott.”

Scott continued to stare at them.

“Sir, you could be in danger,” Sam said. “Those artefacts are wanted by a network of notorious criminals.”

“Well,” Scott made a slow, uncomfortably bovine chewing motion. The threat seemed to do very little. “Old aunt didn’t have much. There was one bit of jewelry, I reckon. A locket that the wife reckons is real gold.”

“We’re gonna have to confiscate that,” Dean put his hand out.

“Ain’t got it,” Martin said. 

They waited.

“Well where is it?” Sam struggled to keep his professional façade in place.

“The wife keeps it in a safe.”

“Well where is the safe?” Dean asked through gritted teeth.

“Her work,” said Scott. “Office building in the town. She’s in admin for a contractor. Cows don’t pay the bills in this economy.”

“And the name of the contractor?” Sam and Dean shared a significant look.

“Chambers,” said Scott. “And Chambers. Have to talk to her.”

* * *

“Lara.”

Lara looked up hastily to see her parents standing in the doorway to her bedroom. She gulped. When they joined forces like this it could only be something serious.

“Yeah?” she said tentatively.

“We received a call from your school this morning,” Mom said with her mouth in a grim line. 

“It seems you and Abigail were absent on Monday and you didn’t bring a note.”

“Which is no surprise as we didn’t write you one,” Dad added, frowning. Barkley, more enthusiastic than sensitive, was trying to get into the room from behind them, wiggling and tail wagging. They were barring his way.

“Ah,” said Lara. The pattern on her bedspread suddenly became intensely fascinating.

“Well?” said Mom, foot tapping. “Where were you?”

“I was…uh.” Lara had very little practice in making excuses. She racked her brain, searching for what Sam and Dean would say, but inspiration refused to come. Barkley finally squeezed between her parents with much thumping and slobbering, and Lara busied herself scratching his head. His tail thwacked obliviously against her bedpost.

“You truanted,” said Mom. “Lara, we’re so disappointed.”

“This is a very important time in your life,” Dad said. “Your entire future is on the line. You’re a bright girl, Lara, you have so much potential. How is this going to look on your college applications?”

‘Well I’m not gonna write ‘ditching school’ under extra-curricular activities,’ Lara thought with an internal eye-roll, but she kept it in. Irritation rose sharply inside her – what they’d done had been important! Life-saving, even! By God, in the scheme of things, it mattered much more than a double period of algebra. 

“Don’t make that face,” Mom clipped. “Lara, this is not acceptable. And it’s not _like_ you. Was it Abigail? Did she persuade you-”

“No!” Lara objected, angry. “Don’t say that about her! It was my idea, alright?”

Silence. Barkley whined a little bit, and panted.

“And why, exactly, did you think it was a good idea?” Dad asked heavily. They were team-tagging. Lara shrugged and stared at the bedspread. 

“Alright then,” Dad said heavily. “You’re grounded. No leaving the house except for school.”

“For how long?!”

“Until we say you’re _not_ grounded,” said Mom.

“And,” Dad added. “No more comic books.”

“ _What?_ ” Something dropped in Lara’s stomach.

“They’re distracting.” Dad went to her bookshelf, and in one fell swoop, gathered half her collection of _Supernatural_ paperbacks. There were too many for him to carry at once, but Mom, getting the idea, immediately moved over to grab the rest.

“No!” exclaimed Lara in horror. “ _Dad!_ ”

“You’ve proven you’re not mature enough to treat these frivolities responsibly,” Dad said firmly.

“Some of those aren’t even _mine!_ They’re Abby’s!” She wouldn't live without _Supernatural_. It simply wasn't an option, especially not _now_. She'd just have to be extra careful about hiding it.

“That’s another thing,” said Mom, pursing her lips. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with that Abigail recently.”

“Well duh, she’s my best friend!” It wasn’t the best tactic, but Lara was angry enough that she didn’t care now.

“If the two of you are going to start skipping school together, it’s not a productive friendship,” said Dad. “Think about it, Lara. Your future is on the line.”

They left the room together, and Lara could practically _hear_ them complimenting each other on their consistent parenting. She covered her face with her hands and groaned. Barkley whined sympathetically and tried to lick her face, then resorted to trying to dig her out when his tongue couldn’t reach her. ‘Sam and Dean have to run from the law’, she reminded herself, an something her aunt used to say came back to her: _no good deed goes unpunished_.

“Barks,” she said, petting the dog’s head, “Meeting Dean is a dream come true. I mean, really. He is the man of my dreams incarnate. But you know what? It is easier to read a story than be in one.”

Barkley whuffed in agreement and pushed his wet nose into her hands.

* * *

“Goddamit,” Dean said, and closed his lock-picking kit with a little more force than necessary. “I was hoping we could _not_ draw the law’s attention for a while.” 

Sam sighed and paused halfway through lacing up his boot. “We’ll skip town tomorrow,” he said. “Get in, get the locket, and get out. We can work the spell over it anywhere.”

“Goddam security with a goddam God complex,” Dean muttered. 

“Rules of average,” Sam reminded him patiently. “Sometimes, the cards are gonna fail. You’re lucky we didn’t get arrested on the spot.”

Security at Chambers and Chambers had been less than impressed by Sam and Dean’s police ID, demanding to speak with their supervisor. Unfortunately Bobby wasn’t picking up, which probably meant he was outside working on a car and couldn’t hear the phone, but Sam made a mental note to check in with him later. The spirit of Grace Fitchfield being up and active, they’d had to resort to a more risky approach: midnight burglary.

“Just once,” Dean said wistfully, “I’d like to be seen out of town with a hero’s parade. Maybe a free meal. Served by a grateful hot chick. Don’t we deserve that, Sammy?”

Sam’s mouth quirked in an involuntary smile. “Yeah right. You love the cloak-and-dagger and you know it.”

“Eh, it keeps things interesting. I’ll be in the car, bitch. Hurry up with your preening.” He clapped Sam on the shoulder on his way out of the motel. 

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

“Freeze!” ordered someone directly behind them. Sam groaned internally as they turned around, hands in the air but not high enough to be totally useless. Dean muttered a quiet curse, the blue beam of his flashlight swinging up towards the ceiling. The guard was little more than a teenager, a skinny kid with a fluff of immature beard around his chin and neck. He looked petrified, but he _was_ aiming a loaded gun in their general direction. Ineptitude and weapons were a dangerous combination, but this kid was dumb enough to be standing ridiculously close, close enough that Dean managed to knock him out with one punch, following the obligatory

“Look man, we don’t want any trouble okay so just-“

Sam felt briefly sorry for the kid, who went down like he’d never taken a punch.

“Shit,” said Dean, nudging a dropped walkie-talkie with his foot as he retrieved the guard’s gun. Kid had no doubt called for backup already.

“Let’s move,” Sam said, indicating the staircase – they ran swiftly and quietly up to the first floor.

The administrative suite presented them with several desks, some in cubicles, others behind glass doors and with name plates. A small safe was built into the wall near the glass doors. Without speaking, Sam and Dean took up positions – Sam attempting to crack the lock whilst Dean stood guard armed with both the new gun and a pistol loaded with rocksalt. An alarm was ringing somewhere in the building. Adrenalin built swiftly in Sam’s body – he preferred lying, if truth be told, to secure insider access, but there was something to be said for an old-fashioned heist on occasion, and he was rather good at controlling himself under this sort of pressure. A familiar chill jolted down his spine and the room flickered with static – Dean fired salt at the spectre of Grace Fitchfield, and Sam couldn’t help a quick glance back over his shoulder.

She had been a tall woman, and was haggard in death, her long face and fingers chalk-white and stretched. She wore a neat blue dress, drawn in at the waist, with a pleated skirt and heeled shoes, a pearl necklace. Her hair was in disarray, pins and strands sticking out everywhere as though she had given up halfway through styling it. Seeing ghosts – though he ought to be used to it – never stopped being sad to Sam, reinforcing the knowledge that this was once a person, once a living, breathing, thinking being, reduced to a travesty of themselves bent on revenge and feeling nothing but sadness and anger. Grace disappeared with a flicker and a grimace as Dean fired the rocksalt.

“Got it!” Sam exclaimed, as the safe fell open, then, “Oh, crap.”

“What?! What crap?!” 

Sam ran his flashlight a second time over the inside of the safe, pushing aside the small pile of written contracts. “It’s not here.”

* * *

 _I’m worried_.

Lara read the two-word text again, screen glowing in the little nest she’d made of her duvet. She should have been asleep by now, but was still too worked up and aggravated for sleep to come anywhere near her. Apparently Abby was awake too.

 _What about?_ she sent back.

There was a pause as Abby responded with a longer message:

_Sam said would call when job done. No call._

Lara’s heartbeat accelerated.

_U think trouble?_

_IDK_ Abby responded. _Maybe am paranoid. Only 2.43. Hunts can take all night rite?  
_  
Another pause. Then:

 _Hang on_ typed Lara, _Tired of txting_ , and pressed the call button. If she woke her parents up now, she’d get her phone confiscated, but Abby didn’t have a computer in her room and if she went downstairs to use the family one she would probably wake the household. Lara couldn’t imagine living without a laptop herself – one aspect of their different lives that left her slightly embarrassed.

“I have a bad feeling,” Abby said when she answered her phone, “It’s stupid, but I have. It’s not like we could do anything anyway, right? They’re professionals. We’re not professionals. I don’t want to die.”

Lara bit her lip. “Have you tried calling him?”

“No. What if I make his phone go off at a crucial moment?”

“Right.” Lara blew her breath out. “Well, like you say, it’s not 3 a.m. yet. Let’s give it another hour.”

“And then…?”

“And then…I’ll think of something,” Lara resolved. “By the way, I’m grounded. The ‘rents busted me.”

“Sucks,” Abby sympathized.

“The school didn’t call your house?”

“My parents were out all day and grandma doesn’t hear the phone. I deleted the message from the answering machine,” Abby confessed a little guiltily.

“Well Abigail Cooper,” said Lara admiringly. “I did not know you had it in you.”

“Me neither,” Abby admitted. “I’ll text you when Sam calls.”

“You do that,” said Lara and hung up. ‘If’ went unspoken.

 

* * *

“Drop your weapons and put your hands behind your heads!”

This was not one of their finer hunts, Sam reflected. The ghost was deterred but not dealt with, the crucial artefact was missing, and now the local police had descended upon them. Sometimes the job was less exciting than headdesk-inducingly frustrating. The alarm still wailed somewhere beyond the walls, building to a nerve-grating crescendo.

“Officers,” said Dean charmingly. “It seems like there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Uh huh,” said the older cop sceptically. “Well, you can just explain everything about it down at the station.” He gestured for the junior officer to start handcuffing Dean, and at that moment, the ghost of Grace Fitchfield reappeared right in front of Sam. He made an instinctive movement for his own salt gun, but she wasn’t paying attention to him - she scowled, and made a clenching movement with her right hand, and the young cop that had moved behind Dean suddenly gasped and clutched at his throat. With a thud that shook the filing cabinets, the older cop fainted.

Sam blasted the ghost with rocksalt, and she disappeared, releasing the pressure on the younger cop’s throat, who fell to his knees, gasping.

“What – shit – what was that -?!” he choked out, and Dean hauled him up by one arm without sympathy.

“Playing away from home, huh?” he asked grimly.

“HUH?!” exclaimed the cop. He was very pale, and his eyes were bugging out.

“Oh I don’t particularly care,” said Dean, “But our spirit here has a hate-on for illegitmate romance.”

“S- spirit?” said the cop.

“Spirit. Ghost. Spectre,” Dean confirmed. “Yes, they’re real. Yes, that was one, and no, she isn’t particularly friendly. At least not to douchebags.”

“Wh – what – what do I do?” squeaked the young cop.

“Shut that alarm off for one thing,” said Sam. “And tell your dispatchers the situation is under control.”

The cop obediently pressed a button on his walkie-talkie and said, “Everson – code green. Yes ma’am. I’ sure ma’am. Everson out.” Seconds later the alarm silenced.

“Now,” Dean breathed out. “You – stay in here.” He rapidly chalked a salt circle around the cop and his fallen superior. “My brother and I are gonna search this room for the thing that can get rid of her. Do _not_ cross this line, for any reason, and if she appears, you fire on her.” He handed the cop one of their salt pistols.

“Um,” the cop looked at it.

“You remember how to aim?” Dean said impatiently.

“Yes.”

“Good. Have your freakout later. We just got to hold her off long enough to find and burn this trinket.”

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

“Ghosts. Are real,” said the young cop miserably. He was sitting cross-legged in the salt-circle, gun across his knees, keeping one eye out for Grace Fitchfield as he mournfully soliloquized to himself.

“Uh huh,” Sam replied distractedly. He and Dean had taken one half of the room each, and were methodically working their way through the desks, sweeping aside piles of paper, calculators, and photos of smiling families. They had found no more safes so far, but picked every locked drawer. Cold static crackled and fizzled in the room with the proximity of the ghost, but Grace had yet to reappear. It was edging on 0400hrs, and Sam _really_ wanted to get this hunt over with. Now they had a civilian at risk on their hands – if not exactly an innocent. Dean kept shooting the cop dark looks – whether due to his general ineptitude or the fact he was conducting an affair, Sam wasn’t sure. Dean had slept with a lot of women, only one of whom he had cared about in serious way, but Sam knew that his brother had his own set of unorthodox sexual ethics, and cheating was definitely not part of it.

“Sam!”

The shout of his name had him ducking instinctively and covering his head, as something whizzed by his ear at great speed. The sting suggested it had taken a layer of skin off. A heavy metal photo frame crashed against the far wall. Then a paper shredder unplugged itself and went smashing into a window. Glass shattered and flew every which way. 

“Under the desks!” Dean shouted: he grabbed one of the fallen cop’s arms, and the younger cop grabbed the other. Objects continued to whizz around the room, computers fell from their terminals, as Sam and Dean each dragged one civilian under a desk beside them. Unfortunately for Sam, he got the noisy one.

“I’m gonna get fired,” said the young cop.

“Yeah, but you’ll be alive,” Sam said. The cop started reciting _Hail Mary_. An entire glass wall forming one of the cubicles exploded, bright slivers shattering everywhere, spraying the whole office with deadly hail. 

“Is there anyone else in this building?” Sam asked the cop grimly.

“N – no. the alarm is remote.”

“Well that’s something,” Sam said, and reloaded his shotgun with salt.

* * * 

_Has been 1hr. No call_ , Abby texted, as though Lara hadn’t been watching the clock herself.

Lara blew out her breath and dialled Abby’s number.

“What do you want to do?” Abby said as soon as she picked up.

“I’m gonna call,” Lara decided. “If they need to not be interrupted they should have their phones on silent.”

“I dunno,” Lara could practically see Abby’s facial expression. 

“They could be in trouble!” Lara said.

“We could get them in trouble,” Abby returned.

“Look, you’re the one who texted _me_ saying you had a bad feeling. Now you’ve given me the bad feeling, so I’ gonna have to do something about it!”

“Alright,” Abby said. “Hang up and I’ll text you the number.”

Lara rang Sam’s phone. And it rang. And rang. Eventually it clicked over to voicemail. She called Abby back, silently thanking Verizon for the pre-paid unlimited call plan. “No answer,” she said grimly. “Okay, we got to do something. They went to the maid’s nephew this afternoon right? I’m calling him.”

“At 4 a.m.?!”

“I’ll pretend to be a cop! FBI or something. Say the bust is going down right now and we need urgent information!” It was exactly what Dean would do, and Lara felt a slow grin spreading over her face. 

“Lara, you can’t!” Abby practically wailed. “That’s not skipping school, that’s a _federal offence_! You’re too young and pretty to go to jail! And _I’m_ too young and pretty to bust you out of there!”

“Abby, it’s all in the attitude,” Lara said firmly. “People are gullible. They don’t _follow up_ on stuff they don’t have to. If the Feds contact them about anything, they’re just glad when they go and leave them alone.” It was a shame that her parents would never know how much _Supernatural_ had taught her.

“You sound like a teenager,” Abby said doubtfully.

“That’s just because you know what I look like. Look, we’re wasting time. I’ll call you back in fiteen.” She hung up, and reached for the binder under her bed where they’d written down the Scotts’ address and contact details. She sat upright in bed, cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and willed her voice down the scale a little, remembering the time she’d been cast as the headmistress in the freshman production of _Fame_. After several rings, a groggy male voice answered the phone:

“Yeah?”

“Martin Scott?” Lara barked, “This is special agent Jennifer Hutchinson, FBI. Your country requires your immediate assistance.” Was that too much? Too late, better press on: “I understand that two federal agents visited you this afternoon.”

“That’s right, they were here.” Scott sounded marginally more awake. “I told them about the wife’s jewelry. Like I said, it’s in the safe of her office. Some problem?”

“Put your wife on the phone,” commanded Lara, hardly able to believe her own daring. There was a pause, and Lara said, “Sir, this is a matter of national security. Time is crucial.” Well, the second part was true. There was a muffled sound as someone dropped the phone, and the man’s voice said something Lara couldn’t work out, and then a confused woman’s voice said,

“This is Laura Scott.”

“Mrs. Scott, this afternoon your husband notified the FBI of your possession of an important item.” Lara’s heart was racing, but somehow she managed to keep her voice steady and authoritative. Her mind flashed back through her knowledge of _Supernatural_. Like the mirror in _Bloody Mary_ or the painting in _Providence_ , the jewelry had to be a cursed object.

“Why – yes, the locket – I had no idea, officer, it’s a family heirloom.” Naturally.

“Is it in the safe at your office?”

“Well not the actual office I work in,” Mrs. Scott said, “That’s for business only. It’s in my employee lock box in the break room: that’s for personals. Ought I to notify the company-”  
“No!” Lara said. “I mean uh, we’ll take care of it.” As an afterthought: “Mrs. Scott, for your notice, the FBI will need to confiscate that item.”

“Well now – wait just a minute,” said Mrs. Scott. “We don’t have many valuables and-”

“What’s more important, your valuables or your life?” Lara snapped, which was probably more primetime drama than realistic cop-talk. But jeez, people were stupid. “You’ll be reimbursed,”  
she said for the hell of it, and hung up. It was clear what had happened. Sam and Dean were looking for the cursed object in the wrong place, and the ghost could be upon them _right now_. She would risk it. Silently apologizing to Abby for not calling her first, she scrolled to redial and selecting Sam's number.

The phone rang and rang.

 

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

As much as Abby loved Lara, she had known since the first day they’d met that her friend tended to get ideas more exciting than reasonable. Since November, Lara had been planning their post-graduation road trip, which would roughly follow the trails of Sam and Dean in their early adventures, culminating with a visit to Carver Edlund’s house in Maine. The facts that they had no idea where in Maine the author lived, that neither of them owned a car, or where they would get the money to stay in a series of run-down motels were minor details that Lara dismissed with the vague idea it would all work out somehow. This, however, was insanity:

“We’re not going to crash the hunt!” Abby hissed into the phone. “Lara, this is serious. This isn’t a game anymore.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

“You don’t think I know that?” Lara was angry. “We are the _only ones_ who know how to stop this ghost, Abby. Sam and Dean need us. And if you don’t come, I’ll go without you.”

Abby paused: “You wouldn’t.”

“Let me ask you something,” Lara said passionately: “When you’ve been totally depressed – like, when school is a pile of shit and home is worse, when people have been picking on you and you hadn't even met me yet so you didn’t have anyone to talk to - what was the _one thing_ that was a bright spot in your day, that you could look forward to, that you could say in the back of your mind, well at least I’ve got that, I’ve just got to get through the hours and then at the end there’ll be that one thing waiting for me, or in three months there’ll be a whole new one and then…”

Abby sighed. “ _Supernatural_."

“Exactly. At my old school in Illinois, when everyone bullied me, and my parents were too wrapped in their jobs to even notice or care, I’d have ended myself if it wasn’t for _Supernatural_.”

“You wouldn’t,” Abby said again, shocked.

“Well I might have,” Lara admitted. “The point is, we’ve needed _Supernatural_ a billion times. Now Sam and Dean need us. We won’t even see the ghost. We’ll just break in, go direct to the employee break room, and destroy the thing. I’m leaving now. Are you coming?”

“Alright! Alright, God, I’ll be outside. Waiting for you.” Lara would have to pass Abby’s house on her way to Chambers and Chambers. “Don’t get caught.”

“See you in ten, bitch,” said Lara, and the phone clicked off. Abby hung up with a sinking feeling.

* * *

The ground floor main doors of Chambers and Chambers were unlocked, evidence that Sam and Dean had been here recently. Lara had passed the building many times, but never been inside – the foyer was understatedly affluent, with modern chrome-and-glass décor and a sleek curving desk where she guessed the receptionist sat in the daytime. Moonlight cast an eerie sheen over everything, enhancing the stillness and quiet.

“Hoooly crap,” Abby clutched Lara’s arm: “Is that-“ 

The slumped form of a young man lay in the foyer. He was dressed in some kind of uniform, and a flat hat with a brim that Lara vaguely associated with cops lay discarded near his head.

“Not dead,” she whispered. “He’s breathing.” They inched around the unconscious form.

“When we go to prison do you think they’ll put us in a cell together?” Abby said. Lara ran a finger down the listing of rooms by the receptionist desk.

“Break room, this floor,” she whispered.

* * *

From the desk where Dean was crouched, Sam heard a groan, then a muffled yell. Senior cop was awake.

“Where am I? What’s happening?” he groaned melodramatically.

“Haunted office, attack by ghost, ghosts are real, shut up and don’t get us killed,” Dean said shortly, and a telephone flew off the wall and struck the table leg near Sam’s head – the sound reverberated through his skull as Grace Fitchfield reappeared.

* * * 

“Safe, safe,” Lara muttered, eyes scanning the break room frantically. 

“Here!” Abby yelled, spying a red metal lock-box in one corner. Abby dragged the safe out into the middle of the floor and realized the obvious – it was locked.

* * * 

Grace hissed and began to close in on Sam and the cop under the table. With a groaning noise, she thrust pale white arms towards his throat. The cord from the phone spun up of its own accord and wrapped itself around the cop’s neck. Sam tried desperately to pull it loose, but Grace flung him backwards, and stars clouded his vision for a moment as his head cracked back against one of the table legs.

* * * 

“I got this,” said Lara, and from her bag she produced….one of Barkley’s punctured tennis balls.

“You’ve lost it,” Abby said, staring at her.

“I saw it on Mythbusters,” Lara informed her. “It only works on locks that are essentially shit, so cross your fingers.” She placed the tennis ball against the lock, so that the opening covered the actual mechanism, and squeezed it. The lock popped open.

“How did you do that?!” Abby exclaimed.

“The air forces it,” Lara said. They rifled frantically through the box together.

* * * 

“Son of a bitch!” Sam heard Dean dimly yell through the ringing in his ears, a shotgun popped, and Grace Fitchfield rushed him in that sudden alarming way ghosts had, _right up_ in his face, her black mouth opened to onto the dark hole of her insides, and he could hear the young cop’s struggles getting weaker, choking –

* * * 

“Got it!” Abby pulled out a twisted metal locket that might or might not have been gold, but thankfully so fine and filigreed that the way to destroy it was obvious. Together, they grabbed the heavy lock box, lifted it together, and dropped it on top of the locket. The metal threads crackled and snapped as the box crushed them – 

* * * 

Grace dissolved with a startled cry, her spirit breaking and vanishing into the ether. The freezing air that accompanied spectres evaporated with her. The young cop fell forwards, gasping for air as the telephone cord dropped away from his neck. Sam blinked, expecting to see Dean discarding the remains of the haunted jewelry, but Dean was reloading his shotgun with salt. He appeared as surprised as Sam.

“What – did you -?”

“I didn’t…” Dean was blinking. Everyone held themselves still for a moment, but the spirit did not reappear.

“Sh – she’s gone?” asked the older cop. The younger was still wheezing and holding a hand to his throat.

“That _looked like_ someone sent her over,” Dean said cautiously. “Just – get back in the salt circle.” He grabbed the young cop by the arm to give him a hand up, not particularly gently. “You okay?” he asked Sam. Sam gave him a thumbs-up and a dry expression, the one that said, ‘Yeah, by the standards of our profession’, whilst checking the back his head with his other hand. It hurt, but only in a surface sort of way, not the brain-deep scrambled pain that signalled a concussion. Once the civilians were inside the circle, Sam and Dean checked the room quickly for any more signs of the ghost. Sam’s phone buzzed insistently in his pocket. 

_One missed call_.

“Got a call from an unknown number,” he told Dean. “Another hunter on it?”

“Call them back,” Dean instructed. “I’ll check the rest of the building,” and was halfway down the staircase before he ran – almost literally – into the last two people he’d possibly expected.

“Hi!” said Lara, beaming and looking dishevelled and pleased with herself. “We found the locket!”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that I'm recommending this, but it is indeed possible to open some locks using the expelled air pressure from a punctured tennis ball. You can look it up on Google. The airstream pushes the mechanisms to turn in the same way a key would. As far as I know, there has never been a episode of _Mythbusters_ about it, though.


	12. Chapter 12

It was a rare occasion that rendered Dean Winchester speechless.

After a moment of staring at the girl stupidly, during which she beamed back and the other one hung back a little more reservedly, he exclaimed,

_“High school chicks?”_

“She’s Lara, I’m Abigail,” said the second one scowling. “For the last time. _And_ we just destroyed the locket, incidentally.” 

Sam hurried down the stairs behind Dean, drawn by the voices.

“Hi!” said Lara.

“You -?” Sam looked back at his phone.

“You were looking in the wrong place,” Lara explained. “We got worried when you didn’t call. Well, Abby got worried, so she called me, and then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I called the Scotts-“

“ – she impersonated a federal agent-”

“And you know you I was right! People _are_ dumb. I learned that from _Supernatural_.”

“Did she just insult us?” Dean asked Sam.

“So anyway, the locket was in the employee breakroom. In a safe.”

“We opened that with a tennis ball,” said Abigail.

“And we crushed it, and ganked the ghost! Right?!” Lara looked brightly from Dean to Sam and back again.

“W- that was _you guys?_ ” Dean said incredulously.

“That’s what we said,” Abigail gave a Lara look that seemed to convey something about Dean’s intelligence.

“Okay,” Sam blinked. “Well, thanks guys! You really saved our asses.”

“So it worked? The ghost’s gone?”

“Gone,” Sam confirmed. “Now we just got to get these civilians out of here.”

“Wait!” Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Just – Sam! They _are_ civilians!” He   
gestured wildly to Lara and Abby. “And they’re kids! You shouldn’t be here,” he addressed them sternly. “This isn’t a game, and it isn’t a story. You could have been _killed_ tonight. Not to mention arrested. You could have thrown your whole lives away.”

Lara blinked and looked suddenly less impressed. “Dude. You sound like my dad.”

“Look Dean just – go see to the cops,” Sam said. 

“What the-?”

 _“Deeean,”_ Sam made the face. 

“We’re not done,” Dean pointed a finger at the kids, suddenly creeped out by how much he felt   
like his own dad, and ran back upstairs to find the cops still inside the salt circle. He   
instructed them to call their dispatcher, report that the perp had gotten away after a struggle, and fed them an invented physical description of an armed gang. “And say they got the dude on the ground floor, too,” he added as an afterthought.

“We already said it was code green,” said the young guy weakly.

“Well make it code _un-green_ ,” Dean glared. Fifteen minutes later, he and Sam were sitting in the front seats of the Impala with the two girls in the back. the shards of the locket had been scattered, some in the tower block parking lot, and the rest in Sam’s pocket ready to be sprinkled out the window at various intervals whilst they drove through town. Dean made to turn the key in the ignition, then stopped and turned around. 

“Look,” he said, “Guys. You need to - stop this now. Go home and forget about it. I know it’s awesome when you gank your first ghost. Believe me, I remember. But this life – it ain’t as cool as it looks from the outside.”

“Are you kidding me?” Lara was still bouncing with adrenaline. “This was literally the most important thing we’ve ever done in our lives!”

“Yeah but…” Dean blew out his breath, and looked to Sam for support. Surprisingly, Sam was just looking straight ahead, staying out of the conversation. “Look – I can see how we basicially seem like rock stars.” Sam snorted. “But well – no-one knows who we are, except you guys apparently, and a few other hunters, most of whom don’t exactly like us. Most hunters are kind of dicks, now I think about it. You don’t get paid, you don’t get thanked, you just get beat up a lot and occasionally arrested. Me and Sam here, we didn’t exactly have a choice. But you do. You could go to school, get good jobs, do whatever you wanted.” He recalled, weirdly, the carnival owner saying something very similar to him and Sam just a few months earlier. 

“But we’d always know, now,” said Abby quietly.

True enough. Knowledge of what was out there could not be erased. 

“We should get you home,” Sam spoke up at last.

“Oh my God,” Lara said. “If my parents woke up, I am literally going to be grounded until I leave for college. With no internet and no phone.”

“See there you are,” said Dean quickly. “Now in the future, just replace the threat of your parents with actual jail time.” He started the car. There was silence from the backseat for a few minutes, then Lara caught his eye in the rearview mirror, frowning.

“So you’re saying…” she said, sounding disappointed: “You don’t actually like hunting? In the books you love it.”

“In the –“ Dean twitched involuntarily at the mention of those damned books. “It ain’t a matter of liking it or not. It’s what we do.”

Silence from the backseat. The girls appeared to be communicating.

“In any case, thank you,” Sam said. “And take care of yourselves. Call us if you – if there’s   
any more trouble.”

“Oh,” Lara said. “I guess you’ll be leaving or – whatever.”

“We might stick around a couple of days. Make sure the ghost really gone. And if course if there’s anything we can do to show our appreciation…-”

“Sam!” exclaimed Dean in alarm.

“Oh believe me, there are - _woah_ ,” Lara’s eyes widened, “Hold that thought. There is definitely one thing you can do for _me_. Tomorrow. I mean, today. Later today. Someone give me a pen.”

 

* * *

 

“They buy it?” Dean asked Sam as Sam pressed the disconnect on his cellphone.

“Totally.” Sam dropped his cell on the motel bed and then flopped down, narrowly missing it. Naturally they’d had no sleep at all that night, and now the motel curtains were drawn against the late morning sun. 

“Dude I can’t believe you offered to _thank_ them,” Dean bitched. “They’re in _high school_.”

“Not everyone interprets thanks the same way you do Dean,” Sam mumbled into his pillow. “Go to sleep.”

“And also, I could have used some back up there. In the car. You were practically encouraging them to get into hunting.”

Sam signed, resigned that he wasn’t going to get any sleep until Dean had said his piece. “I wasn’t encouraging them to do anything.”

“Well you weren’t helping me out. _You’re_ the one whose meant to be so gung-ho for normality and the picket fence and shit. You could have said something.”

“Look, they know now,” Sam reasoned. “Hell, everyone we’ve ever helped on a case knows. They can’t forget that knowledge, and they can’t run away from it.” Dean was nowhere near cruel enough to say ‘you did’. “They just have to decide what to do with it now.”

“But I feel like we left them believing that hunting is _fun_.”

“It is fun. Sometimes. Also miserable, gruelling and dangerous as hell, which is pretty obvious. They’re not stupid. Do you really see Abby or Lara just picking up a machete and heading off on the scent of a nest of vampires now?”

“Have to find a machete small enough first,” Dean grumbled, and headed for the bathroom to shower.

 

* * * 

 

Lara, sit down for a minute.” Mom and Dad were at the kitchen table with a bunch of papers and their cell phones set down front of them, but for once they weren’t looking at them. They were looking at Lara, vaguely troubled and perhaps just a little embarrassed.

“Yes?” Lara stopped halfway through the glass of orange juice she was pouring and sat, the picture of wide-eyed innocence.

“We got a call from your school today,” Dad said. “The girl you took home and looked after decided to tell her teacher about the bullying, and how you and Abby skipped school to take care of her. Lara why didn’t you _tell us_?”

“Oh, well she swore us to silence,” Lara shrugged. “She knew any adult would tell the school, and then the bullies would beat her up even worse. But yeah, that’s why weren’t in on Monday.”

“Well,” Mom’s mouth was set in an awkward line. “We’re still not exactly _happy_ about you skipping. But at least it was with good reason.”

“Yeah well,” Lara smiled.

“So on that score I guess you’re un-grounded,” Mom and Dad shared a look. “Just – in future, you come to an adult with something that serious, okay?”

“Okay,” Lara somehow turned her snort into a cough.

“There’s something else,” Dad went on. Lara blinked in surprise. They had worked out the story of the bullied kid with Sam and instructed him to call her home, figuring he’d pull off ‘concerned teacher’ more convincingly than Dean. What else could there be?

“Your English teacher – Mr. Hunter?” - Lara squeaked down her giggle – “He wanted to say he was very impressed with you. He said your knowledge of Gothic fiction, literary archetypes and – meta-textuality? – is extremely sophisticated. He commended all the reading you’ve been doing in your spare time.” Now Dad looked completely mystified.

“Well I do read a lot,” said Lara, trying to keep the beam off her face.

“I guess there was more to those comic books than we thought,” said Dad, and Lara burst out laughing.

 

* * *

 

“Well I guess that’s that,” Abby said. They were standing in the parking lot of the diner where they’d first met Sam and Dean, and the Impala’s tail lights were disappearing into the early dusk.

“Oh I don’t know,” Lara said wistfully. “They might be back.”

“They were pretty awesome, weren’t they?”

“They really were.”

“You know who else was awesome, though?” and they said in unison:

“We were.”

“We so totally were!” Abby exclaimed. “Lara, we ganked a ghost!”

“So what does this mean?” Lara asked the sky. “Are we gonna like, become hunters now? I mean, Abby. Ghosts are real.”

“Yeah but,” Abby said. “They can’t be that common, can they? I mean, otherwise everybody would know about them.”

“I guess,” said Lara doubtfully.

“But at least we’ll know who to call if we ever meet one we can’t deal with,” Abby grinned. 

“In any case, it’s not like we have to decide the whole rest of our lives right this minute.”

“That’s true.”

“We still have to graduate.”

“And then we have to go on a road trip and meet Carver Edlund.”

“Right.”

“A ghost-hunting road trip?”

“It could be,” Abby acknowledged. “I still don’t want to get killed, though. Maybe a ghost-tracking road trip with recourse to various professional hunters as needed.”

“It’s no wonder I keep you around, bitch,” Lara slung an arm around Abby’s shoulders. You’re pretty smart.”

“You ain’t so bad yourself jerk,” said Abby, and they turned to go.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s the last long fic from me for a while – I have a journal article to get into its final form by the end of July and I can typically only work on one writing project in addition to research and teaching. However, my Big Bang just needs a bit of dusting up and will be revealed in due course over the summer :).


End file.
